


Głodny (hungry)

by gremlins-came-and-got-me (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: "Model" Derek, Bottom Derek Hale, Chef Stiles, Dead Hale Parents, Eater Derek Hale, Feeder Stiles Stilinski, Human AU, M/M, Mentioned suicide (not main character), Minor Angst, Top Stiles Stilinski, feederism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 01:45:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15831222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/gremlins-came-and-got-me
Summary: Stiles is a chef trying to make it big. He needs a model for his cookbook. If the cookbook is successful, then Stiles gets his own TV show. The only problem is none of his friends are available. So, Cora Hale offers her brother. Derek Hale has a secret, one that Stiles can maybe help him with.





	Głodny (hungry)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Prompt #291 Cook for [Fullmoon Ficlet](http://fullmoonficlet.tumblr.com/).

~ * ~

Stiles was desperate.

So desperate, he was contemplating writing a check to his publisher in advance.

So he’d end up with five thousand copies of his own cookbook, so what? He was that desperate!

Instead, his publisher laughed at him and said they were still in talks of finding models, did he have anyone in mind?

Sometimes being self-published was the pits. If only because Stiles had more creative control than he knew what to do with and yet less control over the whole project anyway. Lydia Martin was terrifying like that.

“I only want to see you succeed,” she told him over martinis three days later when Stiles had nearly stress-pulled all his hair out and was currently inhaling drinks like he wasn’t expecting to wake up tomorrow.

Maybe he could drown himself in the gin and then he wouldn’t have to worry about this arbitrary deadline.

“I don’t want to succeed,” he said mulishly to his glass. Lydia smacked him on the shoulder. It didn’t hurt, it never did, but it did draw his attention back to her. “What?”

“You’re being self-deprecating again. We talked about this,” she said, knocking back her own drink before he could steal it. “Stop it. We’ll get the models, at least the ones you can afford to pay the royalties for.”

“What if I asked my friends to do it?” Stiles asked. At Lydia’s outraged look, he amended, “Our friends?”

Lydia sighed. “You can ask, but I don’t know if any of them would say yes. Stiles, agreeing to be photographed is more than just saying, ‘Hey, want to be in my book?’”

“Yeah, but it’s a chance to be famous! Right?”

Lydia shook her head. “Some of our friends are perfectly happy with their anonymity.”

“Would you do it?”

“Would you?” she shot back.

Stiles twirled his empty glass instead of answering. He hated that she was right. If he didn’t have to, he wouldn’t be caught dead in front of a camera. It was bad enough that a large network to remain unnamed for now had struck this deal with him: sell five thousand copies of a cookbook and get his own show. Currently, Stiles worked for that network, doing the behind the scenes prep for other, more famous chefs.

It made his skin itch with how shady it was that he had to self-publish and sell his own cookbook. Rachael Ray never had to do this.

“Fine,” Stiles sighed, “what do I owe for royalties?”

“I don’t know yet,” Lydia replied. “I have to line up a few models and then we have to shoot with your food.”

“Yeah, that,” Stiles said. He was actually looking forward to that part. He only had a hundred recipes, and Lydia had promised him that he’d only have to make six of the most complicated and six of the most beautiful and then six more of her choice and six of his choice for a total of twenty-four pictures. If he got six models, each one could shoot with four dishes apiece.

If he had four models, they’d each get six dishes.

He couldn’t wait to have the finalized lists so that he could go grocery shopping. What they made could then be donated to the homeless shelter downtown. It was perfect. Nothing would go to waste, and Stiles could have free publicity too. He just needed models.

“Are you sure I can’t have our friends do it?”

Lydia didn’t bother to respond, too busy calling an Uber. “Look,” she said, dropping a fifty dollar bill on the table, more than enough to cover Stiles’ four drinks and her two, plus a nice tip, “I wouldn’t do it if you paid me, and you’re not going to be able to pay them. Not really.”

“Are you saying I can’t have models?” Stiles hated the whine he heard in his voice. He cleared his throat. “I mean, how many do you think I can have?”

“With all the costs involved?” Lydia pretended to think. “One. And even then, I’m not sure if we can have them for all twenty-four shots.”

“Can I at least try asking everyone first?”

“If you want to embarrass yourself like that, sure.” Lydia air-kissed Stiles’ cheek. “Get home safe,” she said and sashayed off, steadier in her heels than Stiles could ever hope to be sober and in sneakers.

He sighed and put his head down.

~ * ~

“No,” Cora Hale said emphatically. She laughed at Stiles’ expression. “Seriously, I don’t want to be in your dumb cookbook,” she said. “I mean, why would I? Do you think I can seriously pull off holding a plate of _pierogi_?”

“You might,” Stiles muttered. He was thoroughly dejected. First Scott McCall, his best friend from high school had turned him down, his excuse, “Sorry, man, but you know with planning the wedding and everything, I just don’t think I have the time,” wearing a little thin—Scott had been planning his wedding for nearly three years now. They weren’t even getting married until next year. Stiles was catering the event for fuck’s sake.

His bride had agreed with him too, and Stiles was secretly glad. While he’d been able to make his peace with Lydia and find a balance that let them be friends and co-workers, he’d never found that same element with Allison Argent, and she still terrified him sometimes.

Isaac Lahey, Vernon Boyd, and Erica Reyes were all dead ends. Erica and Isaac were already models and they were currently in Milan for a show. Boyd liked to travel where his wife went, and was in Italy, tending his and Erica’s growing brood.

Stiles was running out of people, and while he hadn’t been as close to Cora in high school as he’d been with the others, he still tried her.

Cora sighed loudly. “Stop it,” she said irritably.

“Stop what?” Stiles said.

“Stop looking like I kicked your puppy or pissed in your cereal.”

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles said, not bothering to do either. He was allowed to wallow, damn it.

Cora sighed again. “Fine,” she said. “Just because I feel sorry for you, and I hate feeling sorry for people, I’ll help you.”

Stiles brightened. “You’ll shoot with me?” he asked hopefully.

Cora snorted. “Not a chance, but I do know someone who’d probably be okay with doing you a favor.”

“Who?”

“My brother.”

Stiles paused. “Your brother?” he repeated. “Your brother Derek? Derek who hates me?”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Cora said. “And yes, that brother. That’s the only brother I have.”

“He does too hate me,” Stiles insisted. He still remembered the one and only time he’d met Cora’s brother. Way back in sophomore year, a dead body had been discovered close to the school. Because Derek was hanging around a lot, Stiles had tipped his dad off to it, and Derek had been arrested.

He’d been let go for two reasons. One: the body had been killed by itself, a suicide, and two: Derek was actually a senior at the high school and had been completing an independent study when Stiles set his dad on him.

Stiles had never apologized to Derek because the first time he’d tried, Derek had glared at him with so much hatred, Stiles counted himself lucky to retreat with all his limbs still attached.

“I’ll call him and let you know what he says,” Cora said. All Stiles could do was nod.

He hoped Derek didn’t remember him or that no one who knew what Stiles had done would tell him.

If Derek did agree to help Stiles, he silently promised himself, he would give Derek half of his first paycheck from his show. _If_ the cookbooks sold.

~ * ~

Cora called Stiles when he was in the middle of daydreaming about buying all his books and then handing them out as gifts for an eternity. Five thousand copies. Stiles didn’t even know five thousand people.

“He says he’ll do it,” Cora said, “on one condition: you don’t make fun of him.”

“I won’t,” Stiles promised, crossing his fingers. He made fun of his own dad. He really couldn’t be expected to keep a promise like that.

“I’m serious, Stiles. He’s self-conscious. Don’t make me have to beat you up because you hurt my brother’s feelings.”

“You wouldn’t,” Stiles said, completely aware that she would and indeed did “beat up” people who wronged her family. Jackson Whittemore, extraordinary douche bag and Lydia’s ex, still flinched when he saw Cora all because he’d called her older sister a slut when she was on baby number three with dad number three.

Cora had apologized for her overreaction when Jackson became dad number four for baby number four.

Currently, Laura had six children, and she didn’t seem ready to slow down.

Maybe Stiles could trade Derek for Laura?

“Stiles!” Cora yelled.

“What?”

“Do you want Derek’s number or not?”

“Yeah, yes please.” Stiles grabbed a pen and paper, scribbling down the number.

Before she hung up, Cora made sure to mention not making fun of her brother again.

Stiles felt like she was trying to say something else instead, and wondered maybe if Derek was horribly disfigured now, like maybe he had gotten into an accident and was burned or permanently injured. If Cora thought Stiles would make fun of someone because of something like that, then she didn’t know him at all.

Physical disabilities weren’t something he teased about. Physical quirks, yes. If Derek twitched his nose when he talked Stiles was likely to mention it. If Derek limped or couldn’t see, well, even Stiles wasn’t that mean.

Stiles sighed, sinking into his chair. He doodled on the page with Derek’s number, drawing an intricate design around the text. He couldn’t explain why he felt guilty—no, scratch that, he knew exactly why he felt guilty—about contacting Derek, but Stiles wasn’t sure if he needed to hear that Derek had forgiven him when he couldn’t forgive himself.

What he’d done to Derek, assumed he was a murderer just because he was a little afraid of him when he’d done nothing wrong, was heinous, especially when he learned later that Derek’s parents had just died in a carbon monoxide accident, and that Derek blamed himself for it since he’d been the one to notice that something was wrong but had brushed it off because he had a sleepover with his friend.

Stiles lifted his hand, smearing some of the ink. He pulled his phone up, poking at it until he could dial Derek’s number.

With the deadlines looming, he didn’t have the luxury of dawdling. He let his thumb slip and press send.

Then, he sat patiently, leg jumping a million miles an hour while the line rang. And rang.

Finally, right before the answering service picked up, the phone was answered.

“This is Derek Hale.”

Stiles frowned. He hadn’t expected that voice. Smooth, a little breathless, cool syllables. Stiles visualized the eighteen-year-old Derek he knew and realized he’d never heard him speak.

“Hello?” Derek said.

“Hi, yes,” Stiles rushed out. “Your sister, Cora, gave me your number.”

Amused-sounding, Derek asked, “And who would you happen to be?”

“Uh, I’m Stiles. I’m a chef.”

“Stiles, huh? Like Sheriff Stilinski’s son?” Derek’s voice held a guarded edge, and Stiles swallowed hard.

“Yeah, uh, yes. That Stiles.”

“And what did you need?” Derek definitely wasn’t as jovial as before.

Stiles inhaled deeply. “I have a cookbook coming out and I need a model for the pictures. Your sister suggested you.”

“And why was that, I wonder?” Derek mused.

Stiles had no answer for him, and he didn’t think Derek was looking for one anyway.

“What’s the catch?”

“Uh,” Stiles clicked his tongue, “I don’t know?”

“So why should I help you?”

“Because you’re a good person?” Stiles tried. “And I might be able to give you leftovers from the shoot?”

“Deal,” Derek said quickly. “Text me the details.” He hung up before Stiles could say anything else.

“Huh,” he said, setting his phone down and picking up his pen to start scribbling again. “Weird.”

~ * ~

“He just agreed?” Lydia repeated for the third time. “No negotiation? Nothing? No demands?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. He bent over to apply another light dusting of powdered sugar to the plate of _pączki_.

“And he wants nothing in return?” Lydia narrowed her eyes at him. “Stiles, what did you tell him?”

Stiles straightened, twisting the bag shut and setting it aside before he turned to face her. “I may have told him that he could have some leftovers.”

“Just some, right?” Lydia pressed. “I mean, you were going to donate the unused portions to the shelter.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Stiles!”

“Look, all I know is Cora told me not to make fun of him and he agreed to do it for leftovers. If we play it right, then we might not even have to pay him that much in royalties. Isn’t that a good thing?”

Lydia opened her mouth like she was going to argue and then snapped it closed. “Maybe,” she hedged. “I mean, I’d certainly still draw up a contract.” She plucked a _pączki_ from the plate and popped it in her mouth.

“Hey, I need those!” Stiles was actually trying to perfect the recipe so that he could feature these in his six. The dough was a little dense, but he was on the right track. Lydia licked her fingers, which she never did.

“They’re good,” she told him. “Why don’t you see if you can pay him in these instead of any real money at all?”

“I hope you’re joking,” Stiles muttered, waving when she told him she was leaving. “A contract,” he said to himself as soon as the door closed behind her. “What do I need to put in a contract?”

~ * ~

Turned out Derek definitely would work for food, but Stiles had a contract simply stating: “Fifteen dollars per hour plus ten dollars per used photograph and all the leftovers the model can carry.”

Stiles averaged it to be just under $300 before the food and maybe around $330 after the food. All in all, about half as much as paying royalties. He generously added half of a half of a percent of all book sales to go to Derek provided all 5000 copies sold.

Derek signed with a flourish and then promptly posed next to whatever Stiles told him to.

Lydia had hired a professional photographer for this job, and Stiles almost kicked himself when he realized that it was another mutual friend from high school.

Danny Mahealani flashed a million dollar smile and camera at Stiles. “Surprised, Stilinski?” he asked, turning to catch Derek in the act of lifting a forkful of _bigos_ from the single serve dish Stiles had prepared.

Stiles paused too, watching Derek as he chewed carefully and swallowed, a delighted look on his face. He went back for another bite, and another. And another. Stiles frowned.

The signed contract was securely locked in Stiles’ office. Maybe he should have put a clause in there about not eating everything? Because it didn’t look like Derek was slowing down. He sampled his way across the table and came back for seconds and thirds.

He looked happy, thoroughly enjoying himself as he tried this and that, a little _bigos_ here, some _ż_ _urek_  there. Derek sighed at the end of it, eyes fluttering with a contentment Stiles rarely saw outside of his friends when he offered to cook for them.

“And done,” Danny said, snapping one last picture of Derek licking the fork he’d used on the _naleśniki_.

Stiles felt…aroused, and he slipped away before he could embarrass himself. When he returned from an extended bathroom break, he found Derek alone in the remains of the twenty-six dishes, still eyeing everything with a hopeful expression.

“Where’d Danny go?” Stiles asked.

Derek shrugged. “To ‘recoup,’” he said, with air quotes. “I don’t think he liked me very much.”

“Oh, no, dude, that’s not it,” Stiles said. “It’s probably me. He and I didn’t get along very well when we used to interact. In fact, he probably only did this as a favor to Lydia.”

“Does he get leftovers too?”

That was definite trepidation on Derek Hale’s face. Stiles shook his head. “No, I don’t think so? I mean, Lydia took care of his contract.”

“Awesome. So, what do you want me to take?”

Stiles looked around the kitchen. It wasn’t destroyed or disheveled but it felt ransacked somehow. “Um, I need to take most of this to the shelter downtown. It’s a thing Lydia and I do when I’ve made too much food. But, uh, I made a few spare dishes of some of the food. You can have whatever you can carry.” Stiles pointed toward the oven, and Derek opened it, beaming at what he found inside.

“Awesome,” he said again, grabbing a fork off the counter. He paused, looking to Stiles. “Do you want me to help you?” he asked.

Stiles shook his head. “No,” he said faintly, in disbelief that Derek could still be hungry after all he’d eaten. “I’ve got it. You go ahead. Do your thing.”

Derek smiled beatifically, fork already on its way to his mouth, loaded with more _bigos_.

Twenty minutes later, Stiles glanced around his kitchen. All the food was boxed up, settled in the large fridge he’d sprung for once his student loans were semi-decently paid off. Dishes, mostly Derek’s forks and the single serve bowls and plates, were piled up in the sink. Stiles wiped down the counters and returned to the little kitchen table where Derek had set up shop with his pan of _bigos._

Stiles sank into the seat across from him, and then stared wide-eyed at the empty pan in front of Derek.

“Holy shit, where did it go?”

Derek blinked at him, face turning red. “I ate it?” he said uncertainly.

“All of it?” As much as everyone, especially Scott loved Stiles’ _bigos_ , even they got sick after a few bites. It’s a rich, heavy dish. That’s why Stiles made the single servings for the shoot. To find out that Derek ate an entire pan while he was waiting for Stiles to finish boxing up the rest of the leftovers did something to Stiles’ stomach.

All of a sudden, he understood why Cora said not to make fun of Derek.

“Dude, that’s really something,” Stiles croaked. He realized with a pang that it wasn’t his stomach reacting in sympathy to Derek’s overindulgence, it was lower and it wasn’t sympathy. Ah, fuck. This was a newly discovered kink, wasn’t it? Stiles was going to have to test out his theory multiple times.

Derek frowned at him. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Stiles said, voice still strained. “Say, how do you feel after eating all that food?”

Derek rubbed at his stomach, and Stiles imagined he could see a swell pressing out through his shirt. “Uh, okay? I don’t indulge often, and when I do, I get kind of sleepy?”

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles laughed, “I can imagine.” He eyed Derek appraisingly before jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve got a spare bed?”

Derek smiled. “Asking or telling?”

“Telling you about the bed,” Stiles clarified. “Asking if you’ll stay.”

Derek must have seen the hunger in Stiles’ eyes because he nodded, licking his lips the same way he did before every bite. “There’s something,” he said softly. “I like—can you lie with me?”

“Sure,” Stiles said, his definitely-not-stomach twitching in anticipation.

Derek’s face settled into a blissful smile. “I think I know what’s going to happen,” he told Stiles.

“Oh yeah? What?”

Derek winked. “You’ll see.”

~ * ~

Epilogue

Stiles did see. Turned out Derek liked his stomach petted when it was full, and they both had not-stomach twitches that led to Stiles getting his dick wet and Derek rolling onto his hands and knees, swollen stomach brushing against the bed with every thrust.

Once every couple of months, Stiles cooked enough food to feed an army, and Derek ate enough of it that Stiles’ newly discovered kink became an indulgent and fond one.

Also, every cookbook sold, and Stiles got his show. Lydia plugged her ears and refused to listen about how Stiles’ cooking was an aphrodisiac. Cora pretended to not hear him when he told her about dicking down her brother, mumbling something about not making fun of him, as if Stiles had any intention of doing so. Derek confessed that he’d known all along that Stiles had been the one to get him arrested. He’d thought he’d deserved it for not catching the carbon monoxide poisoning, and had been madder about being released than he was at Stiles for wrongfully accusing him.

Forgiveness felt a lot like love, Stiles thought, one hand curled around Derek’s belly as they spooned together after a session. And love felt fulfilling.

~ The End ~

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posted at [my Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/post/177506423655/g%C5%82odny-cover-and-fic).
> 
> Un-Beta read. All mistakes are my own.


End file.
